


how to be a heartbreaker

by goldenheartprincess



Category: Natasha Pierre and the Great Comet of 1812 - Malloy, Voyná i mir | War and Peace - Leo Tolstoy
Genre: Angst, Canon Incest, Dubious Consent, F/F, F/M, Incest, and also not cool, not much though I promise, very angsty
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-11-18
Updated: 2017-11-18
Packaged: 2019-02-04 01:19:15
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 6
Words: 5,357
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12760173
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/goldenheartprincess/pseuds/goldenheartprincess
Summary: There are five times in Elena Kuragina's life that her heart was broken.And there was one time that it was not.





	1. Anatole Kuragin

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Her brother could not possibly break her heart, but he finds a way to do so.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hey, welcome to this super angsty fic! There's some canonical incest in this chapter, so be warned.  
> Also, please leave me so many comments okay I will cry.

Her sweet brother.

There was something unique about their relationship, as everyone could clearly tell, but they refused to define what that was. It disgusted Hélène, truly, the things that they would do in the dead of night. There was no way to redeem that. She would never want to anyway.

He rolled over one night, with no candles around and no light to reflect off of his platinum curls. "Do you recall meeting Marya Bolkonskya?" His tone was casual, unafraid or unexpectant of any possible response. 

"Yes, at a ball I believe," she replied, a soft whisper rising from the back of her throat. She did not turn to face him, knowing that in the pitch black, that would be in vain. His grip around her bare waist crashed like strong waves along the beaches they would visit as children, but this time, he was the kisses in the sand. Perhaps he was the messages she would write, only for the waves to wash away her thoughts and cries for help. "She had a very simple face with small features, if I recall correctly. Why do you mention her name?"

"I'll be asking for her hand in a couple of days," he confessed. He wasn't proud, the sand was slipping from his finger tips. This wasn't a warning or a request for some kind of blessing, this was a beg, for a reason to back out. If he could blame someone for talking him out of it, it would be the sister wrapped around his leg like seaweed.

Her face went pale, as she realized what this meant for the two of them. She didn't particular enjoy their time together, but when she tried to draw a line, the waves would crash again. "I see." She was careful and particular in her words, as to not voice an opinion. Ladies, she learned from a young age, were not supposed to do that.

They weren't exactly supposed to be in bed with their brother either.

"But what do you feel?"

What did she feel, dear Anatole? That was a loaded question.

She felt a sinking hole in her heart when he breathed against her neck. She felt the heat along her collarbone that she prayed would disappear along with her body, exposed and vulnerable to one man for her whole life so far. There was a difference, she had decided long ago, between choosing something and not choosing to refuse. She wasn't sure exactly what the difference was, but she saw it in the distance or lack thereof between Anatole's hand and her breast at any given moment. "I feel as if it is time for us both to find partners." She breathed, speaking her own truth. "That Bezukhov that hangs about is quite interesting after enough vodka."

"Pierre?" Anatole held back cackles, rolling his tongue to trap them between his rosy lips. "What an odd choice for you, sweet sister. I would have expected the war hero."

"Pity," she said. "I thought you knew me well enough to know that I will never choose the unexpected." Why else would she have chosen to not refuse Anatole?

"I see." He believed that his cards were often the same ones in her hand, but they played in a very different order. The truth was, he could never see what she was dealt. The dealer's ladies night was never a time to celebrate; free drinks meant free unwanted attention. 

He did not continue his train of thought. He did not speak again, but instead rested his chin along the crook of her neck until he fell fast asleep, snoring gently against her ear. She did not fall asleep, with his hands wrapped around her chest. 

People often had fires in their hearts, Hélène noticed. Sometimes they were roaring flames. Sometimes they were destruction, burning a path through veins and vanity. But as the wind blew outside their window and his chest heaved against her back, all her heart felt was cold. As if it didn't exist. As if it had been broken.


	2. Pierre Bezukhov

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A husband she does not love cannot possibly break her heart, but he finds a way to do so.

"He's pleasant to look at," Hélène mused to herself, watching the man from across the courtyard. It was one of the true kind things she could bring herself to say. After his outbursts at Anna Mikolova's party, she found it hard to feign interest in him. However, she told Anatole she would marry him, and that she would. Winning his affection might be one of the simplest tasks in her life. From a young age, she learned how to manipulate men. By now, it was second nature.

"Count Bezukhov," she curtsied, holding out her hand for him to kiss. His beard tickled her soft skin, and she held in her laughter just enough to create a smile. "it would be an honor to dance with you."

"Oh, I didn't ask." He found himself stammering, never in such close proximity to such a woman. Woman was the first word in mind when a man faced her body, with more woman that they had ever seen in their lives. Her chest was prominent, as articulately planned, but her lips were just red enough to earn attention and respect without an outpouring of affection.

"You didn't have to." She smiled so gently that the skin around her nose wrinkled as dimples formed around her lips. She led him to the center of the ballroom, certain that everyone was staring. What wasn't there to look at? A man dancing with a woman about half his size, and a woman dancing with a man about half her handsomeness. They were the match to look at.

The more their feet moved in time, Pierre slightly behind and muttering the rhythms quietly to himself, the less Hélène felt herself faking any affection she felt for the man. He was charming in his own quiet way, not too extravagant as he was when he would turn into the Kuragin estate at midnight, with three bottles of vodka in his thick coat. She was never one for romance, because she never found one worth it. 

She told him so at their wedding, as her white trail followed behind. Her face was sallow and pale, almost appearing like a corpse as she recited the vows that Fedya had helped her write. She wasn't the best with words, but he often was reciting old monologues from plays long enjoyed. His heart may or may not have been aflame as he told her that she was his goddess of idolatry, but hers surely was. But it was not yet broken, so it was not yet to be spoken about.

"Hélène," he grinned so widely at her, the edges of his cheeks spreading so far apart that she felt as if she were a puppet on strings tied to his smile, the happier he was, the faster she broke in half. "You are the most beautiful woman on the face of this Earth."

Her heart, she felt, was burning like a candle. Just a small flame flickering on the edge, crackling with a sweet aroma. Not enough to do any damage, but melting at a steady pace. Beautiful. That's all she would amount to. Nobody would compliment her lying, and those were her only skills.

She would only amount to being Pierre's wife.

He babbled on about her for a minute or so more, as she kept a perfectly poised smile on her face to avoid facing the truth of how she felt. She managed to say something about his brevity and wit, although she only managed to notice those when he was drunk. Fortunately, there could be no Russian wedding (no matter how much it felt like a funeral) without enough drink to kill Napolean's army.

After a couple glasses of champagne, it was simple for her to return to the center of the ballroom, where the pair shared their first moments together, and click her heels against the marble in terms of celebration. She was giddy, almost, as she performed jigs and lifts with the help of her husband. Every time someone said the word, an arrow lodged in her heart. She ignored it by filling the cracks they created with vodka.

"The best man is supposed to give a speech about the groom," Anatole laughed as he raised his glass at the reception, eyes on him and feeding into his love for attention. Spotlights were drawn to anything they could reflect off of. "but I'd rather talk to my sweet sister, Countess Hélène Bezukhova. She truly is the light of my life, and I pray that she guides Pierre through the darkness as his new candle." 

Hélène blushed slightly, understanding the weight of every word out of his mouth. "Pierre, treat her well. Always be kind and faithful and you can expect the same from her. Hélène, love him with all of your heart."

There wouldn't be much left after the end of the night.

She needed to cut back on the drink and make sure he didn't stop; he must believe that this was her first time sharing herself with a man. He must not remember the details or the truth in the blood on the sheets (she brought a knife with her to help her cause). He must believe that she was good because for a woman to be good, she must be pure and for a woman to be pure, she must be alone.

He was clumsy and unsure and she genuinely believed that this was his first time (she had no reason to believe otherwise and many reasons to believe so) and when he fell asleep with alcohol on his breath and himself inside of her, she sighed with relief that there was nothing left to do. Rolling him out and over, she wrapped herself in a robe and went, with a broken heart, to find a bottle of wine, a risk worth taking, and a man to share herself with until she cried.


	3. Fedya Dolokhov

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A sidepiece cannot possibly break her heart, but he finds a way to do so.

"Fedya?"

Soft and curious, not unlike a child waking up their parent at the sunrise on Christmas Day, she called into the guest bedroom where Fedya Dolokhov rested, sprawled over the covers and fast asleep. Cracking open the door just enough to slip inside, Hélène drew her robe tightly around her waist and made her way to the edge of his bed. He wore no shirt, and the rest of him was covered by golden sheets.

"Fedya?"

Whispering into his ear as she knelt down, a quiet groan escaped his lips.

"It's me, Hélène. I can't sleep."

He blinked awake, knowing that name was far worth losing sleep for. The name, the curls, and the form were worth losing many things for; including his best friend. "Come on in, darling. Is there a problem between you and the mister?" He wished there was, for his own personal gain, but his affection for Pierre gave him a splash of guilt to counteract his lust. This was not enough for him to not allow the bride into his bed.

She lifted the duvet up, looking down for just a second to see that there was a thin sheet covering his otherwise exposed body, and slid next to him. He wrapped an arm around her back, holding her the way that Anatole used to, when they would stay up and talk about the stars.

Pierre, she decided, would never hold her like that.

"I do not love my husband," she confessed, although that much was abundantly clear to anyone who had enough knowledge to see. Few did, but Fedya was the brightest of that class. "And I don't know what scares me more; the thought that he feels the same way or that he loves me deeply."

There was no point in asking why she would marry a man she didn't love. They both knew their respective situations and how the luxurious and envied life of the rich played out. "He cares for your body, but not for you soul," Fedya explained, having enough conversations with every aristocrat in Russia to know that they all felt the same way.

"And do you?"

"I care for you, darling, whatever that has to mean."

A part of her believed that the end of the sentence was meant to be "for us to make love tonight", but the overwhelming majority of her foggy mind convinced her that it should have been "for you to understand my love". That's what it should have been, yes, but that is not what it was.

It was enough, however, for her to remove her robe and her dignity and her sanctity and her self respect and his thin sheet for the night. One night turned into weeks which rolled into months of sneaking out of the alcoholic's wedding bed and into Fedya's. The war hero cared about himself, clearly, but also made sure she was well satisfied every time.

The three of them sat down to eat, a formal meal with an assortment of well-dressed men, all eyeing Pierre's wife and making vulgar jokes about her body that her low-cut dress did not allow them to make. She laughed them off, even giving them winks and taps to satisfy them enough to leave her alone. Sure, consider her a slut. Just don't consider her troubles.

"I challenge you!" Pierre stood, a thick finger pointed at the nose of Fedya Dolokhov. "You are having an incorrigible affair with the woman on your left and for that I cannot forgive you, but I can kill you."

"Pierre, you've had too much to drink." Hélène found herself saying, leaping to her feet. "You don't know what you speak of. You will get yourself killed."

"So kill me. Fedya, kill me. Outside. Bring your gun."

"Pierre, you are out of your mind," Fedya insisted. "Sit, we will discuss your state of being tomorrow. There is no reason to rush into things based off of untrue rumors."

"It's true."

Hélène swallowed, shocked at the words that escaped out of her mouth. Sick to her stomach from denying and sneaking around, she wanted that nightmare to end. She had no idea that this was a hydra and that two more would grow in its place.

The first was Pierre's demanding hands sending a servant away to fetch his best gun.

The second were Fedya's words, rolling off of his tongue as if he had been waiting to voice his opinions for months, as if Hélène wasn't still waiting for her chance after years.

"You slut!" He shouted, shattering his glass against the white table. "You ignorant whore, why must you smite my name? I gave you everything that this oaf could not, and you repay me by telling half of the army of our crimes? Open your legs for one man and that is not a sin, but opening your mouth to any man and you are damned to hell, you disgraceful cunt."

Pieces of glass lodged into Hélène's wrist as he shouted, two tears rolling down her cheek with the grace she had always managed to express. This did not hurt, even with the blood dying the tablecloth red and her skin slicing open, as much as her heart felt an explosion, the sort of thing she imagined Fedya saw in battle.

This, she realized, was not the peace she had always expected it to be. The peace was in the society and the war was in France, she believed up until she watched two of the men she loved storm away.

Separated from those who could hurt you with their love or their hate was peaceful.

This?

This was the war.


	4. Marya Dmitrievna

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A woman cannot possibly break her heart, and yet she finds a way to do so.

The dreaded dragon was the most likely to set poor Hélène's heart on fire again; the warning was in her name. This did not stop her from being the princess in a tower for as long as she could be. The three men she invited into her life had done nothing but crush her, and she believed that the one that would raise her back up was the gentle touch of a dragon.

"I have no one else to turn to," Hélène said as she arrived at the Rostova household without a single plan in the back of her mind. "I know we have only met on a few occasions, but I need a friend. I do not trust the men in my life, Marya, and you seem to be the kindest soul in sight."

"Welcome to Moscow, Hélène." Marya spoke calmer than Hélène had ever heard her, as she pushed back into the door and let the girl inside. Her doors were only open to a select few, but there was something so pitiful about the Countess, something she never expected to see before. Marya did not condone unfaithfulness and knew of Hélène's crimes, but she did support forgiveness and love for thy neighbor. And, to be perfectly fair, Marya did not have too many friends of her own.

Hélène allowed a sad smile to appear over her face, gazing inside Marya's home. Leather bound books lined cherry wood shelves, with a long banister leading up to the bedrooms. "Your house is very beautiful," she commented, with many other homes she had visited, never truly having one of her own. "Thank you for allowing me inside. I trust you've heard the rumors?"

The older woman did not pride herself on how often she kept up with affairs such as these. There was not much more for her to do beside read and be a watching figure in other people's lives. "Yes, I have. What part of them are true?"

"I left my wedding bed for Fedya Dolokhov," Hélène said. "and continued to do so for the last few months. Once Pierre had enough to drink, I would sneak away. Upon discovering this, Pierre challenged Fedya to a duel and shot him. Not fatally, but enough to wound his shoulder and his pride."

"There is one part you have omitted that the voices of gossip change as they speak." Marya led Hélène into her living room, where they sat down on comfortable couches. Not the sort to have parties among, but the kind fit for curling up with a good book or partner. "Why did you do it, Countess? Some say because you've cared more for Fedya all along, some because Pierre simply did not measure up, and some... well, because you care for no man or for yourself."

Hélène blushed, turning away from the kind stranger. "I regret to inform you that the latter may be the truth. I do not love Fedya, nor Pierre. I do not love myself, Marya, although that is truly a dreadful thing to say about oneself. It is strange for a woman such as myself to feel so strongly about her soul in the way that I do."

"It is only strange for a woman to voice her hate against herself." She nodded along, considering the other's words. "I believe every one feels this way. My goddaughters are arriving today, Natalya and Sofia, and I look forward to being their friend during their times of need. They will break so very often, as young girls without their rocks do, and I will put them back together. I extend the same hand to you, dear Hélène."

To treat this common stranger as closely as a family member was a love and courtesy that Hélène could not fathom. Love, she believed, took work and time and more work to develop and grow. This had to be some sort of lie, some sort of trap then. Anatole spoke often like this, where he would charm young girls with blind promises and words for the sake of getting what he wanted; typically a night alone with them. "I must be heading out." Hélène rose to her feet, willing them to walk towards to door. "I thank you for your kindness, but my heart is telling me that I am better off alone."

Marya's kind face fell. "In that case, Countess, I would argue that you do not have a heart. Your fear must be speaking volumes. I understand-"

"No, you understand nothing!" Hélène shrieked, whipping her emerald skirt around her heels sharply, glaring at the woman she almost considered a friend. "You do not know the things I have seen and the things I have done out of fear and out of my heart. I have loved every man in my life, but they have lost out on that affection in various ways. I do not know why I thought that you could be any different, just because you are a woman. Sex has no affect here, everyone in this world is just as cold and cruel as everyone else. I regard this meeting as a pointless waste of both of our times, and for that, I apologize sincerely. Goodbye, Marya."

After finishing her monologue, Hélène promptly turned to storm away, but the kind outstretched hand pulled her back, harshly, but not as much so as Pierre would have done. The woman made eye contact for a long moment. There was no hate or anger in Marya's soft green eyes, only pity and affection. Hélène couldn't help but break character, unable to be the strong, cold woman that she often portrayed. The generosity she saw in Marya was something she never saw before, so when Marya gently pulled her in for a kiss, she leaned into it with a soft passion bubbling inside of her.

For once, images of Fedya and Pierre faded from her mind. She did not think about how they handled her, squeezing and grabbing whatever they felt like belonged to them. She enjoyed that, the name-calling and force, at times, but she never experienced gentle lips brushing against hers. She closed her eyes, allowing Marya inside of her mind and her mouth, letting the grand dame into her heart and praying that she would treat it well.

And then there was a knock at the door.

Marya broke apart, panic overtaking her body. Here she was, in her own home, with a known slut's lipstick smudged across her lips. "You have to go, my goddaughters are here." She frantically wiped her face with her sleeve, pushing Hélène out towards the back door. 

"Let me meet them! I remember Natalya from a couple of parties across the years, she was very charming." Hélène's heart filled with warmth to meet the girls, chatting about their finances and hope for the world while drinking tea. "She's very close to Pierre, and I'd love to meet Sofia as well. I could very well use some friends, Marya."

"I do not see that as a particularly grand idea." She fumbled with the edge of her shawl, twisting the tassles around her thin fingers. "I can't see you making any sort of positive connection with them, they are so different from you."

"What is that supposed to mean?"

The knock rang out again, as Andrei's betrothed called out, "Marya? It's Natasha and Sonya. It's very cold out here!"

"They are young and impressionable and I don't want them to be corrupted at this age." Marya found her words the best she could, unsure how to phrase her thoughts perfectly.

Hélène froze, tears afraid of coming out. "You're afraid that I'll turn them into whores. That I'll tell them how to cheat on their husbands. You're just like the rest of the world, aren't you?"

"No, it's just-"

"That's it, and you know it!" Hélène spat, picking up the hems of her gown and marching out the back of the house. "I saw a friend in you, Marya Dmitrievna, but you are a bitter old woman and I have more pity on your life than I have on mine!"

A third knock hit the door as the countess was gone, and Marya welcomed her goddaughters inside with a grin.

She was unable to keep this grin on at the opera that she took her goddaughters to see a couple days later, when she encountered Hélène with Fedya. The pair had given up on secrecy, as Pierre had already blown their cover. Watching them exchange kisses and grasps, Marya wondered if she had thrown away a shot at something real. Hélène was a slut, and that was just a fact of society at this point.

"Who's that girl?" Natasha asked, as Marya gazed longingly at the countess. "She's very pretty."

"Hélène Bezukhova, I believe you've met." Marya answered, not facing Natasha. "She married dear Pierre."

"Oh, Pierre!" The younger girl giggle, recalling her old dance partner. "Let's say hello!"

"Quickly." She guided the girls towards her, having a brief and forced conversation. Both Marya and Hélène left the interaction with a sense of yearning and regret.

"There's a woman one should stay far away from."

Hélène heard these words, echoing in her mind as Fedya planted kisses down her neck to the edge of her breasts. What a strange feeling, to have a woman break your heart as a man tried to kiss it. There was a bright fire once more, and she thought there would be nothing left after it end out, charring every inch of hope into hate.


	5. Natasha Rostova

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A helpless girl could not possibly break her heart, but finds a way to do so.

Waiting around the corner, Hélène watched Marya carefully as she exited the house to go argue with Bolkonsky, who everyone knew despised Natasha. Once Marya was gone, Hélène knocked three times quickly in succession. Natasha, with her dark eyes that showed she had been deep in thought for hours, answered the door.

"Oh, my enchantress!" Hélène said, entering the home as Natasha flushed. She was in a corset and slip, trying on various dresses. "You look beautiful, but barely clothed."

"I was just dressing, I thought you were Marya. She just left and I thought perhaps she forgot something. So if that's who you were here to see, you can come back-"

"Don't be silly, lover, I'm here to see you." Hélène took a step closer to Natasha, whose entire face had turned a shade of red that only Marya would wear. Beautiful women often intimidated the young girl, but especially ones that showed an interest in her. "My brother is having a ball and would like you to come. I, on the other hand," she leaned in, whispering to Natasha's ear with a certain breathiness dripping with seduction, "would  _ love  _ you to come."

"I-I don't know." Natasha turned away, heading up to her room, where Hélène followed her. "I'm betrothed, you know, and your brother was very close to me at the opera, and I'm not sure if it's-"

"It's perfectly normal." Hélène flipped through the gowns in Natasha's closet, inspecting the satin and lace. "An engagement should never stop a woman from having an enjoyable time. Nor should a marriage." She noticed how her words were so very familiar to what Marya expected from her; and that was not a problem. Being what people thought she was what no crime. She was a slut and a homewrecker and worthless, but she was vile and vindictive. If her life was ruined, she was taking down Natasha with her. Besides, she couldn't be happy with Andrei anyway. She'd turn to Anatole just as Hélène turned to Fedya. It was natural.

"That makes sense, I suppose, but you must understand my fear of being unfaithful." Natasha's words meant that she knew nothing of Hélène and Fedya or that she knew everything about the pair. Hélène struggled to figure out which one. 

"I do," Hélène admitted, "but I am far more familiar with the fear of being bored. Once you become a wife, charmer, your life will fall. You must enjoy this time while you can."

"But I love Andrei!" Natasha cried out, over dramatic as ever. "I will always enjoy my time with him. I miss him so much."

"And I recall the grand affection I felt for Pierre when we were engaged." Hélène carefully spoke, not to denounce her current love or lack thereof for Pierre. "That should not fade, but you will often feel lonely. Spend your days now in ways that you will remember. Just come to the ball, please. You'll be the prettiest there and I won't have any fun if you don't come. Do it for me, dear Natasha."

"If you truly wouldn't enjoy your evening without me, I would be harming you so much more if I didn't attend. I will come."

And she did, in the most dazzling gown that Hélène had ever seen. She danced with Anatole all night, never leaving his side. Hélène watched them waltz, pressing their bodies so close that they could feel each other's heartbeats and breaths. There was a certain ache she felt at the pair. Even cheating, Natasha could find more love than Hélène could. There was a certain jealousy the Hélène felt as she watched them from the distance.

Nearby, a woman that looked so closely like Marya danced with a shorter countess, and Hélène's heart wondered if she ever had a chance with the grand dame. Turning back to face Natasha and Anatole, she watched them share the most magical kiss. The world seemed to stop.

Natasha's face fell into a terrified stare, the sort of look one has when they fall in love.

Hélène's fell the same way. Her heart burned for the last time, slowly roasting her from the inside out. She smiled when Anatole turned to her, almost showing off the prey he had caught. This is what he wanted and what Natasha wanted; Hélène was happy for them.

But she had never been sadder for herself.


	6. Hélène Bezukhova neé Kuragina

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> She cannot possibly save her own heart, so she finds a way to kill it.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> TW: Canonical suicide.

Five times her heart was on fire.

One time it wasn't. She refused to let it burn.

Pierre was out, and she knew exactly where he had gone. To shout at Anatole, possibly kill him, for messing with the woman he truly loved. It was not Hélène, and for that, she felt a certain sadness. Anatole, who once loved Hélène that way, left her alone without a single care. He married a woman he didn't love. At this point, his sister found it hard to believe that he could experience love for anyone but himself.

And that broke her heart.

She knew, that if a married man had tricked her into eloping, Pierre would have laughed and toasted to it. She agreed to spend the rest of her life with a man who hoped his would end at any given moment. This was not the reason she hated him; but how much he pinned this self-deprecation on her.

And that broke her heart.

He blamed his suicidal tendencies on her unfaithfulness and his best friend. Although he was still preferable to his husband, Fedya saw Hélène as nothing but a piece of meat to enjoy until he was finished for the night. He made sure she would finish too, only to keep her happy enough to return. Such an unselfish act had such a selfish motive.

And that broke her heart.

After these men broke her heart, she turned to a woman with a gentle touch, but Marya was no better. Full of judgement and hate of her own, she banished the woman from her home without a second thought. There was no redemption in her eyes, and if someone was horrible they were the worst and not allowed to tarnish the good in the world.

And that broke her heart.

So Hélène targeted that good, Natasha, for no reason other than proving Marya's point and giving herself another reason to despise everything and everyone in the world. And when that world stopped to give Natasha and Anatole a moment of pure happiness and bliss, she felt as if she could have been happy, if only she was not herself.

And that broke her heart.

Hélène was done with having her heart broken.

Without a shred of caring for another human being, worrying how they might feel or react, Hélène poured herself a short glass of vodka and arsenic.

And her heart stopped.

And could no longer break.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you so much for reading this. It's one of my favorite fics that I've ever written and I really enjoyed creating it. Half of it was written in a Starbucks and the other half was in a moving car (without Wi-Fi or a spell checker). I write a lot about Elena, as she's such an interesting character. You might enjoy 'locked' by me if you liked this one.  
> Main tumblr: goldenheartprincess  
> Ask Helene tumblr: askcountesshelenebezukhova  
> This entire thing was inspired by @forgetregret2132, who wrote a beautiful Spring Awakening fic in a similar manner.


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